


Blow by Blow

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is finally moving in with Porthos, and that in itself is not what worries him. What's nagging on his mind is that tiny, irrelevant, insignificant detail about his past Porthos doesn't know about, and Aramis has no idea how to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It is a bit disheartening, Aramis supposes, to realize that one’s life fits into a total of five boxes. It certainly makes it easier to move house though. He feels bad that Athos rented him a whole truck to transport his meagre belongings, but then Athos was the one who decided that Aramis’ old bed and wardrobe had in fact given their life in the line of duty and would most certainly not make the trip into Aramis’ new room.

Aramis was somewhat surprised by the passion behind this statement, and Porthos told Aramis very quietly to just let Athos have his way this once. Thus, brand new furniture is already waiting for Aramis at his new address, sturdy and handsome and _expensive_. It’s Athos' own fault, really. If he hadn’t been such a terrible autocrat … no, Aramis still feels bad. He feels small and useless and empty, just as empty as those boxes of his look in the back of the truck.

He watches the vehicle drive off and then makes the trip between his old apartment and his new one on foot. It is a cold autumn day, rainy and grey, and Aramis feels even worse when he arrives at the beautiful old building that will be his home from now on. He doesn’t have to ask himself what the problem is. He knows precisely what the problem is, and his lack of belongings has next to nothing to do with it. He’s moving in with Porthos today, after more than five months of relationship … and Porthos still doesn’t know. Aramis still hasn’t told him. Aramis doesn’t know _how_ to tell him.

So far Porthos has been patient, has been sweet and kind and wonderful, and Aramis fears that now that they’re living together, Porthos will expect … sex. He’s certainly right to expect it, and it’s not like Aramis doesn’t want to have sex with him, it’s just that –

“What is wrong?”

Aramis nearly flinches, looks up from his quiet misery to find Athos frowning at him. He really should have expected Athos to receive the truck and oversee the transport of Aramis’ belongings into the apartment. Still, Athos’ concerned gaze touches him … throws him off balance. Athos tilts his head, studies him intently, and eventually smiles, very softly. “You look as though you pulled a muscle packing, but since I saw your boxes –“

Aramis tries to answer that harmless sally with a smile of his own, and Athos steps forward, puts a warm hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “What happened? Did we steamroll you into this after all? Would you prefer not to live with us?”

He sounds somewhat guilty, and Aramis melts a bit, manages an honest smile. “That’s not it, I promise.”

Athos looks at him for a long moment, and then he turns. When Aramis looks up to see what has claimed his attention, Porthos is approaching. Aramis doesn’t even have the time to marvel at Athos’ apparent ability to sense Porthos’ proximity. Porthos envelops him in one of his glorious hugs, fills Aramis with warmth and light and makes him sigh in content. It will be fine. Porthos is lovely. He will … he will understand. Aramis lifts his face, receives the kiss he’d been hoping for, and helps bring his remaining belongings into the house. They put his boxes in the former guest room and leave them there for the time being.

Porthos has made chocolate cake in celebration of Aramis moving in, and Athos has made coffee – seems suspiciously intent on Aramis drinking his cup before it goes cold. Aramis receives it from Athos’ hands, admires the artful pattern Athos has created with the milk, and takes a careful sip. He sighs again, relaxes into the leather couch and closes his eyes for a moment.

Porthos is sitting next to him, his arm behind Aramis on the backrest of the couch, and Aramis smiles when it comes down to lie over his shoulders, when Porthos pulls him in and brushes a kiss to his temple. “You look a bit exhausted.”

Aramis makes a tiny noise and leans into him, turns his face to the side and hides it against Porthos’ sturdy frame. Porthos is wearing one of his cardigans, soft and warm, and Aramis breathes into it, closes his eyes and lets go of his worries. Porthos pulls him still closer, holds him flush against his body, and Aramis goes boneless, doesn’t resist when Porthos takes the cup from him and entwines their fingers. “You think you gonna miss your old apartment?”

“Not a bit,” Aramis blurts out – and then he blushes, fails to hold in a startled laugh. “I am glad to be out of there, to be honest.”

“Then what are you lookin’ so droopy for?” Porthos asks him, carding his fingers through the tangled mess of Aramis’ hair. Aramis wants to tell him, he really does, but it would be hard enough to work up the courage when they’re alone – he can’t do it in front of Athos.

So he keeps his eyes closed, pushes a little closer to Porthos. “It’s just the weather.”

If he raised his head to check, Aramis would see Porthos and Athos exchanging a look in reaction to that answer, but since he doesn’t check, he doesn’t see it. It is Athos’ question if he wants some cake that brings Aramis out of hiding – that makes him raise his head and direct a hopeful gaze towards the table. “Yes, please.”

Athos smiles and cuts him a generous slice, hands Aramis his plate while studying his face out of those cool green eyes Aramis was so in awe of when they first met. He’s rather sure Athos went to a hairdresser in-between that day five months ago and today, but by now he looks like a proper mountain man again. Aramis has gotten used to the look, has grown fond of it even, but those cool green eyes still manage to make him nervous now and again.

Aramis tastes the cake and moans in culinary bliss, drawing a chuckle out of Porthos and the ghost of a smile out of Athos.

“I am going to leave you now,” Athos says in his smooth, posh voice, gets up from his armchair and smiles. “I have an appointment at the bank … some tedious financial business. Enjoy your cake, Aramis … I should be back to help you unpack before you go to bed.”

He leaves them without a further word, and Aramis can only blink when the door falls shut behind him. “I thought he said he had the day off?”

Porthos clears his throat and looks at the ceiling, takes a deep breath. “I guess he thinks somethin’s off … with you.”

Aramis feels the blood drain from his face. God no. Not now, not like this. He isn’t prepared, doesn’t know what to say. He can’t do this right now.

Porthos takes one look at him and then gently takes the plate from his unresisting hands. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Breathe, Aramis, please.”

Aramis does as he’s told and feels better for it, but the panic doesn’t quite leave his chest. It keeps pressing down on him, keeps making it hard to allow air into his lungs. For he knows that his reaction ruined everything – that he can’t pretend to be fine now, that Porthos won’t stop asking. He’s entitled to an answer after all.

“Come here,” Porthos murmurs when Aramis keeps drawing in one laborious breath after the other. “Calm down.” He pulls Aramis into his arms and holds him, rubs his hands up and down Aramis’ back. “It’s ok,” he whispers, “whatever it is, I promise it’ll be fine. I’ll help, and Athos too – you don’t have to worry about anythin’.”

Aramis squeezes his eyes shut and clings to him, feels precariously close to the kind of helpless hysterical laughter that usually ends in tears. “It’s nothing … nothing like that,” he gets out, “Athos can’t … Athos can’t help.”

Porthos brushes a kiss to Aramis’ forehead, brushes the hair out of his face. “But I can?”

Aramis squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he can see stars explode behind his lids. “I’m not sure you’ll want to.”

“Course I want to,” Porthos rumbles in a mildly offended tone. “What’s goin’ on? Did I do somethin’?”

Aramis thinks back on all the times he pulled away from Porthos’ kisses in the past, thinks back on all the times Porthos’ smile invited him to stay for the night, and he still went home to sleep in his own bed. “No,” he hears himself say, his voice hollow. “You didn’t … you didn’t do anything.” He clears his throat, swallows the tears crawling up his windpipe. “I’m just a fool is all.”

Porthos looks at him in silence for a long time, tilts his head and frowns. “Is this about sleepin’ arrangements?”

Aramis flinches, and Porthos nods almost imperceptibly. “It is – isn’t it?”

Aramis bites his lip. He has no idea what to say. It was probably inevitable that Porthos noticed – they’ve been playing this game for more than five months after all. Even Porthos’ patience had to run out eventually.

“Listen,” Porthos says, and his voice goes very tentative, “I won’t claim that I don’t want you in my bed, ‘cause I do – very much even. But if you’re not ready, I can wait. And if you don’t want it at all, that’s fine with me, too. I got a box of toys I’ve been usin’, and I’m sure I can add a few things, keep it excitin’.”

Aramis throat dries up so fast that his mouth falls open. Toys. Porthos has got a box of toys. That he uses. On himself.

This took about the sharpest turn Aramis could have expected. He’s just glad his head didn’t fall off.


	2. Chapter 2

“You heard what I said?” Porthos murmurs in a soothing voice that has absolutely no effect on Aramis’ frazzled mind. “You don’t have to worry about me crawlin’ into your bed in the middle of the night. I won’t take anythin’ you don’t wanna give.”

Aramis stares at him out of wide eyes, tries to keep his heart from jumping out of his throat. Dear God, Porthos probably doesn’t even know what he just said – what he just did to Aramis’ fragile self-control. And Aramis still hasn’t told him the truth, doesn’t know if he can, now that Porthos is looking at him with those _eyes_. Porthos is so perfect and sweet and _beautiful_ and Aramis wants to climb him like a tree. But that was always the problem, wasn’t it? That and the other thing.

Aramis takes a fluttering breath and bites his lip, does his best to resist, just a moment longer. Only Porthos picks that moment to brush a kiss to Aramis’ cheek, entirely undemanding, and Aramis can’t resist _that_. He turns his head, just a little, and presses his mouth to Porthos’. His lips fall open all by themselves, and he gasps, presses closer to Porthos, _just a little_. And just like that they are kissing, needy and passionate, and Aramis feels himself slipping.

He moves onto Porthos’ lap, slings his arms around Porthos’ neck, and he _wants_ , he wants Porthos so much, but he knows that if he gives in, if he lets go and lets it happen … His fear is probably irrational. Porthos is different than the others, he truly is. So Aramis kisses him deeper, opens up and lets Porthos take whatever he might want.

When Porthos pulls back Aramis whines, follows Porthos’ mouth and receives another kiss, gentle and soothing.

“You’re givin’ me mixed signals, darlin’,” Porthos says in a husky voice that goes straight to Aramis’ cock. “What’s goin’ on? You think you have to do this?”

He sounds so worried underneath his arousal that Aramis feels properly wretched for inflicting this nonsense on him at all.

“No,” he whispers, ashamed and hopeless, “no – I want this, I promise. I want you. I’ve … I’ve always wanted you.”

“But somethin’s not right, I _know_ somethin’s not right,” Porthos says. His conviction is quiet but fierce, and when he puts his hand under Aramis’ chin to have a proper look at his face Aramis actually shivers. “It’s like you’re afraid of me.”

Just like that, Aramis feels like crying. “I’m not,” he gets out. “I could never be afraid of you. It’s … it’s me really.”

Aramis wants to whack himself in the face as soon as the words have left his mouth. But Porthos’ expression doesn’t change, doesn’t mock him for uttering such an overused phrase. Porthos still looks worried, still looks utterly patient. “You’re afraid of yourself?”

That’s not what Aramis meant to say, not the way he would have put it … but it’s rather accurate nevertheless. He hangs his head, closes his eyes. “When we met for the first time, you said I wasn’t what you’d expected.”

“Cause you were so shy,” Porthos replies softly. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t like you. I liked you right away, Aramis, I promise.”

“I used to be different,” Aramis says. He’s staring at Porthos’ chest – is still sitting on his lap, still holding on to his shoulders. “I used to … I had a lot of partners, when I was younger.”

“I don’t care about that.” Porthos’ voice is careful and tentative, and his hands stroke gently over Aramis’ sides. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Aramis looks up, looks into his eyes. “I really … I really liked sex. But I think I was too young, maybe, too young for most of my partners anyway. Most of them were … were friends of my sisters, and they were all older than me, were all more experienced, and I –“ He stops, licks his lips. “It was … it was always good. It was always _so good_.”

Porthos is returning his gaze out of thoughtful, patient eyes, and when Aramis stops speaking, Porthos lifts his hands, gently brushes the hair out of Aramis’ face. “What happened? What did they do?”

Aramis hangs his head again, can’t look at him anymore. “They mostly called me a slut.”

Porthos doesn’t make a sound, and Aramis squeezes his eyes shut, takes a strangled breath. “I didn’t mind so much, at first … but it kept happening and kept happening and it … it really got to me, after a while. They didn’t mean it like an insult, I don’t think they did, so I didn’t know how to tell them to stop it. When I – when I tried to hold back, so they wouldn’t call me that anymore it just felt –“ he takes another deep breath, hangs on to Porthos for dear life, “it didn’t feel good anymore.”

Porthos still doesn’t say anything. What he does is put his arms around Aramis and hold him close. He holds Aramis safe and warm for a long moment.

“I’m never gonna call you that,” Porthos whispers into his ear, rubs his hand up and down Aramis’ back. “Not unless you _want_ me to. There’s nothin’ wrong with enjoyin’ yourself, and I won’t call you names for doin’ it.”

Aramis makes a tiny, helpless noise and presses into him. He’s finally able to relax, finally able to let go of his anxiety. Porthos is still the same sweet, wonderful man he’s been from the start, neither scoffed at Aramis nor leered at him. He’s still … he’s still Porthos. So Aramis kisses him, soft and grateful and snuggles into his embrace without shame or fear. He is safe with Porthos, even more so than he’d always hoped. Porthos kisses his forehead and hums in approval, cards his fingers through Aramis’ hair. “Yeah, this is nice, this feels good.”

Aramis feels actually inclined to giggle. The wave of relief washing over him is so strong that it nearly drowns him in euphoria, and he peppers Porthos’ neck with kisses, strokes his hands over those wonderful wide shoulders of his. Porthos chuckles and manhandles Aramis around on his lap until he’s leaning into the curve of Porthos’ right arm, his legs stretched out over the couch. His ministrations leave Aramis somewhat breathless, and he looks up at Porthos out of adoring eyes, meets a calm, fond gaze. “How’s this then?”

Porthos doesn’t wait for an answer, dips his head and presses his mouth to Aramis’ – kisses him with quiet intent. Aramis’ lashes fall closed and he sighs into the kiss, brings his arms up to loop them around Porthos’ neck. It has been a while since Aramis last kissed someone, simply for the pleasure of kissing itself. He had forgotten how boneless it could make him, this tender intimacy, how he could melt into someone’s arms and lose himself in the sensation of their tongue against his.

Porthos doesn’t rush matters, is gentle and playful, and this doesn’t feel like a lead up to something else – _something more_ – at all. Porthos is kissing him because he wants to _kiss_ him, and when Aramis pulls on his neck to have him closer, Porthos comes, allows himself to be pulled down and sinks sideways, lays down on the sofa with Aramis in his arms. Aramis blames his poor sense of timing when he remembers Porthos’ box of toys precisely at that moment when Porthos traps him so gloriously beneath his weight.

Aramis moans and arches up against him, and the sound of the front door opening freezes him in this position – makes him hold his breath and close his eyes.

“Don’t mind me,” Athos’ voice falls into the utter silence that follows. He sounds amused, and fond, and a little bit embarrassed. “I’ll leave again right away, don’t stop on my account.”

Aramis scrambles out from underneath Porthos so fast that he very nearly falls off the couch. “No! Wait! You don’t have to –“

Porthos’ arms come around his middle to prevent him from flailing into the couch table, and Aramis stops – stops everything and takes a deep breath. Clears his throat. “I would like you to stay.”

“So I gather,” Athos drawls, sounding vaguely amused.

When Aramis braves a look at his face he realizes that it must be raining outside, for Athos looks drenched. So Aramis gently but firmly removes Porthos’ hands from around his middle, and rushes towards Athos to help him out of his coat and hang it over the bathtub in the bathroom to dry. He returns to Athos with a towel, drapes that very helpfully over Athos’ shoulders, and refrains just in time from putting his hands into Athos’ hair to get the wet strands out of his face.

Athos keeps looking at him, that half-smile of his hovering around his mouth, and when Aramis finally steps back from him he smirks. “I see Porthos was successful in restoring you to your usual self.”

Aramis flushes all over.

Athos bites his lip when he realizes the effect of his words, and his hand comes up to touch Aramis’ shoulder – squeezes it carefully. “You _are_ feeling better?”

All Aramis can do is nod.

That gets a real smile out of Athos. “Very well then. As long as I did not brave the elements in vain, I am satisfied.” He looks over at Porthos, and grins at him. “How about some more coffee. You have hardly touched your cake.”

“More coffee would be lovely,” Aramis hears himself say, and clears his throat right afterward.

“Very well then.” Athos nods and gently manoeuvres Aramis back towards the sofa. “I shall make myself useful. Once we have had our refreshment, we can set about moving you in properly, yes?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, sitting himself down next to Porthos on the sofa. “I would really like that.”


End file.
